We are the champions
by Gargoyle13
Summary: Short, short drabble as each Knight realizes he's survived something.
1. Tristran

**Disclaimer:** Belonging to Bruckheimer and tales of glory, not me.

**A/N:** Very short drabble that came to me while on the train and listening to Queen, 'We Are The Champions'. Seemed fitting. Am hoping to get to all the Knights and Arthur eventually. Oh yeah – this is AU since, well, Tristran lives through the battle with the Saxons.

Tristran allowed himself a moment of relaxation. The battle was done. More dead Saxons than Woads littered the field. His eyes scanned the length and width of the field, quickly picking out and noting the six heavily armoured figures among the living.

He was breathing heavy, for him at least. The battle had been long, hard and though he would walk away, he was not unscathed.

His face turned upward at the cry. Golden eyes found and tracked the dark form circling above. Letting his mind relax further, he simply enjoyed her freedom.

_You survived._

Tristran started at the soft words. His gaze snapped to the field. Reflexively his hand went to the pommel of his sword and he tensed, scanning for who might have ventured near enough to break his reverie.

_Survivor…_

_Warrior…_

_Brother…_

The words brushed past his ears, softly, tickling on the breeze. The last caught the breath in his throat. Familiar; comfortable; it brought a small smile to the scout.

"Bedwyr," he whispered back to the breeze.

A laugh Tristran had not heard in some time filled his ears as he allowed the smile to spread, again turning his face upward into the sunlight.


	2. Gawain

Gawain stopped, letting the handle of his axe slide further into his loosened grip. His stance did not relax though, and he turned a slow, cautious circle to survey the field. It appeared the Knights had claimed the day; his brothers were already moving through the dead, kicking at some of the questionable to verify their state, turning others over, looking for weapons or other valuables.

He snorted at the bodies strewn about and began his own search; he kicked and turned over bodies, stopping sometimes to examine the markings they bore or to remember if he'd had a particularly difficult time dispatching them.

_Workhorse._

Gawain's head shot up at the word and he looked around, grabbing a firmer hold of his axe and dagger. Cautiously he made his way forward, toward where he thought the voice came from, bringing his axe and dagger round to the battle ready positions. If there was someone out here alive that shouldn't be, Gawain was not going to be caught off-guard.

_Workhorse._

The voice was closer this time, somehow. Gawain whirled about, swinging the axe, convinced the speaker was behind him, fully expecting his axe to connect with…whoever. The rush of battle that had not fully left his veins was flooding back; he was breathing quick and hard. The lack of something to embed his axe in sent him sideways with the momentum and he stumbled slightly to compensate.

_Workhorse. _

This was maddening. Gawain looked to his brothers, but they had not noticed anything amiss. He felt rather sheepish, swinging like some trainee at the bait that elders would sometimes torment them with. Rocks or sticks thrown to make noise, whirling the trainee in circles, swinging blindly at some perceived threat, to the great amusement of the elders. Whirling back around, Gawain shook long plaits and laughed at himself. His mind had been in such frenzy with this battle – they'd been overmatched and undermanned but somehow emerged victorious, that it as it relaxed, it was beginning to play tricks on him.

_Brother workhorse._

He froze, refusing to acknowledge the words that he had heard in combination from only a few. Two of who were still standing on this field, he was certain of that because he'd seen them clearly. Gawain swallowed hard. The only other was…

A soft laugh greeted his ears along with another whisper.

_Blood. _

Tears welled in Gawain's eyes as he whispered, "Agravaine." He closed his eyes and swore he felt the strong hands clasp his shoulders, shake him lightly and clap him on the back.


	3. Lancelot

Lancelot sat on the stable floor, watching nothing, trying to think about the same. But he couldn't. Not so soon after battle, even a victorious battle. What was it that Gawain called it – battle frenzy or battle rush…? He couldn't recall and trying just made his head spin more.

Leaning back, he let his head rest against a hay bale and closed his eyes. Perhaps tonight he would utilize this hay bale for something other than a place to rest out of weariness.

A soft laugh drifted to Lancelot's ears and he started. He knew Jols was in the stable somewhere, but Lancelot also knew he hadn't spoken his hay bale intent aloud.

Squinting he looked around for the source. Not finding it, he contented himself that it was in his mind. Pulling a piece of hay from the bale, he twirled it in his fingers, noticing that he still had plenty of blood to clean from them before any fit wench would acquiesce to his advances.

Another laugh made Lancelot sit upright. He slowly pulled his knees under him and leaned forward, peering out into the darkened stables. Still he saw no one.

A third laugh seemed to come from behind him and sent him forward, knocking his head against a low hanging bucket. Turning and rubbing his head, he growled wordlessly into the dark.

A sound made its way to his ear then. It sounded like _tsk, tsk_ but Lancelot couldn't be sure. No one had made that sound in his vicinity since Kay. And Kay was dead, so he knew it wasn't that brother.

He squinted into the dark above the hay bale.

"Whoever you are, whatever you think you are doing, I am not amused." He thought for a moment, adding, "Gawain if that is you, brother, it is not my fault she chose my bed over yours. I would think by now you would be used to it." He chuckled quietly, if it truly were Gawain he would know quickly.

_You've not changed. _

Lancelot's smile froze; he froze. It could not be. He was dead.

The soft chuckling made its way to his ears again and Lancelot swallowed hard, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

"Kay?" His voice was a small whisper in the dark. He felt so much like the small, frightened boy he'd been all those years ago… Squeezing his eyes shut, Lancelot felt the damp pool slightly under his eyes and swiped at it, not caring if the dirt and blood from his hands left mottled streaks.

"Kay?" His voice a little more hopeful, stronger, Lancelot leaned forward against the bale, wishing for all the world that his mentor, his brother, was really there. He needed him now when so many of the old Knights had passed on to the Plains; needed the guidance and stability Kay had always brought to him.

"I hate it here. I hate the killing. I hate the Romans. I just want…" Lancelot's voice trailed off as he realized he hadn't really thought of anything or anyplace he would be if not here, with his brothers and Arthur. "You weren't supposed to go. It wasn't time. The other Knights needed you. Arthur needed you. Even Agravaine still needed you, though we both know he'd never have admitted it." Lancelot let out an uncharacteristic snort.

_You?_

The whisper didn't take long to register and Lancelot was nodding black curls slowly, as more wetness seeped from under eyelids he'd squeezed shut. "I needed you most of all. You were…you kept me…" Lancelot searched for words but knew deep inside that Kay would understand – he always had. Resting his head against the bale, Lancelot opened his eyes, letting the water from his eyes drip to the dirt below. How he was wishing for some words of wisdom, of truth, that his brother had always brought to him.

_Listen. _

_Trust. _

_Believe. _

The three words that Kay had worked so hard to instill in him echoed in his ears as Lancelot chewed the inside of his lip and watched small pools form at his feet.

_First you…then them. _

Lancelot smiled weakly. This had been Kay's same advice before every battle, including what had been his final battle. He heard the sigh and felt the hands on his shoulders, squeezing them tight in a show of support and strength. When the cool night air replaced them, Lancelot fought back the urge to protest and instead smiled. As he rose and wiped away the tear tracks, Lancelot began contemplating the remainder of his evening plans. Feeling renewed, he strode toward the stable exit.

_Behave! _

The familiar scold brought a broad, wicked smile to Lancelot's features. He turned and winked over his shoulder. "Always, dearest brother, always."


	4. Galahad

**A/N:** OK…so Galahad doesn't get the concept of a short drabble very well. One too many chocolate pudding cups, I guess.

Galahad flopped over on his bed and groaned. He wished he could stop feeling so ill, that somehow the killing, the bloodshed, would stop bothering him. Though, he had to admit, today's battle had been bloodier, harder fought, than any in recent memory. He wondered if any of the other Knights were ill. They'd all retreated from the stable and each other fairly quickly. Even Gawain had not waited, not made sure he was okay before heading off to somewhere.

He looked at the pitcher and bowl on the table. There would be clean, cold water waiting for washing. Perhaps if he washed some of this grime away he would feel better. Rising, he made his way to the table and poured a generous amount of water into the bowl. He dropped in a thin cloth, watching as it absorbed the liquid and sank. As he watched, he smiled slightly and thought about the similarities of sinking cloths and sinking Knights. The latter image made him laugh slightly.

Those had been better days. There had been just as many battles, but more Knights… Galahad shook his head gently, so as to avoid making it hurt any worse. He'd also enjoyed not being the smallest Knight at the fort. That distinction had belonged to Mouse, as he'd been aptly nicknamed. That hadn't been his real name, but it had been the only name that Bryce responded to. Mouse. Galahad chuckled slightly. It had been Mouse who'd warned him of the older Knight's penchant for tossing the smaller Knights into ponds, lakes or whatever body of water was closest. And not for any reason, just because…

_Will you float? _

Galahad started as the answer came to his ears. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"And if you didn't float that time…" He paused, waiting.

_Always the next pond. _

A broad smile lit up the boyish features. Mouse and he had formed a bond quickly. Really, it had been more of a warning system since they were the two smallest Knights and, therefore, the ones who were consistently tested for floatability. Though, Galahad had to admit, Mouse had it considerably rougher since he had been smaller than Galahad. It had made him easier to toss…and easier to fit into small, cramped spaces.

The smile faded from Galahad's face as he recalled how many times Mouse had been sent down this hole or that one, this tiny opening or that one searching for Woad traps. Or, Galahad thought ruefully, when the Woads had somehow gained access to the fort in a considerable number. The opening Mouse had found in the Wall…it hadn't seemed large enough for one of Bors' children, much less a man. But, true to form, Mouse had squeezed himself through and back, proving to Arthur, the Knights and various assembled Roman commanders that it was, indeed, possible.

_Not easy._

Galahad shook his head. No, it hadn't been an easy squeeze; one of the Roman commanders had tried to rule it out as a key access point because, well, it would simply take too long to squeeze any significant amount of Woads through such a small opening and they would all have to be Mouse-sized, which just wasn't feasible. Until Mouse mentioned quietly that all you really needed to squeeze through was one Woad…

_To open the gate. _

Again, Galahad smiled as he recalled the silence and then panic that followed Mouse's observation. Immediately, Mouse had been dispatched, accompanied by Dagonet and Bors to go up and down the Wall, searching for holes that had been either chiseled into the stones or tunneled underneath the Wall itself.

Galahad looked upward, trying to fight the sadness that suddenly overwhelmed him. It had been one of those investigations that had gone terribly wrong. Woad scouts must have been watching and realized what Mouse was doing. Archers had been waiting at one of the access points and when Mouse's head and shoulders popped outside the Wall… Bors told the others later (and after many, many tankards) that he heard Mouse yell once and then nuffing, in Bors speak. Bors and Dagonet had grabbed his boots and pulled him back through the hole quickly…

_Archers were accurate. _

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? Is that supposed to make it better? It was stupid and worthless and should never have happened." Galahad reached into the bowl and twisted the cloth in ever tighter spirals.

_It did._

Galahad scowled at his surroundings. "I know it did, Mouse. We all know. It just wasn't fair – to us or to you." Mouse's death had been a hard blow to all the Knights. He'd been so likable; Gawain liked to say that Mouse's laugh was twice the size of his body. After his death, the Knights had also ceased testing fellow Knight's floatability.

_I'm free._

Galahad's head sank. "I know." His voice was quiet. "Maybe that was why it wasn't fair – you're free and the rest of us are still bound here to this…duty or whatever it is. It just wasn't, isn't, fair…"

He could imagine Mouse shrugging at him. Fair and unfair had not been things that Mouse, or many of the older Knights, had dwelt on. This was their life and whether it was fair or not never seemed to bother them. It was what it was – you lived each day, survived each battle until your time here was over one way or another.

_Accept it._

"Accept it. You sound a lot like Gawain, you know." Galahad smiled. Wringing the cloth out for a final time, Galahad looked at the dirty water. "I think, Mouse, I think that I need a drink."

_Will you float?_

Galahad answered softly. "I don't know, Mouse…I don't know anymore." Turning, he began heading to the tavern, only to stop in the doorway at the sound of laughter behind him. Mouse wouldn't…couldn't…there was no way the rest of the Knights were going to start testing his floatability again, was there…? Galahad's head hit the door frame as he sighed and resigned himself to carrying an extra set of dry clothes once again.


	5. Arthur

Arthur stood slowly. The pain in his side betrayed broken ribs; blood dripped from split knuckles and made the pommel of his sword slick. In one breath he thanked God that the battle was over while with the next asking God to have carried each of the Knights in his charge through. Balancing with his sword, Arthur took in the battlefield. His eyes did not linger on the dead – he searched the living for the familiar outline of each Knight.

He spotted Tristran first only because of the dark shape that caught his attention, darting out of the sky to the man's shoulder. Near to Tristran were Bors and Dagonet. Bors was hunched over and Dagonet knelt in front of him, looking up into his face. Arthur groaned inwardly. If Bors was hurt…

_He lives._

Arthur started at the voice. It was soft and familiar though he could not quite place it. Squinting, he renewed his survey of the field, intent on locating the final three Sarmatians.

Lancelot was nearest. Arthur watched as hands too adept at killing slid twin swords into sheaths and a dagger slid out. Lancelot began picking through the dead on his way to Arthur's side. Arthur released the breath he'd been holding. He relied on Lancelot as his second in command, but more than that, Lancelot was the brother he'd never had.

_My regret. _

Arthur looked up, wildness in his eyes. Where was that voice coming from? Why was it disturbingly familiar yet difficult to place?

Returning his attention to the field, he noted that only two still needed accounting.

He spotted Galahad striding across the field toward Gawain. The workhorse was on one knee and Arthur could not tell if he was injured, catching his breath or inspecting one of the dead. Instinctively he moved forward, intending to find out Gawain's state despite the pain the movement caused him.

_Alive._

The answer came to his ear, even as he lifted a hand to brush it away like one of the many annoying gnats that the humid summer weather and heat of battle seemed to foster. Reflexively he lifted his hand a second time to swat the tiny insects away from his face and ears.

_Artorius._

It was like a soft breath on his ear. Hardly anyone called him that anymore. Only his father had used his Latin name. His mother had resisted, preferring 'Arthur', his name in the tongue of her people. He stopped and looked down at the sword in his hand; the sword of his father…

_Excalibur. _

The name echoed in his ears and with it came the recognition.

"Father." Arthur looked Heavenward, leaning heavily on the sword.

_Commander._

Arthur could not help smiling reflexively. He knew it was what his father had always wanted; for him to follow his father's footsteps and command the Sarmatian Knights. He hoped he'd done well and lived up to the reputation his father had built. Closing his eyes, he silently asked for more words – praise, condemnation, whatever Uther had to offer he was willing to accept. He'd been so young when Uther was killed. Pelagius had been a replacement, but that had been all he was; a shadow of the man Arthur had admired his father as. Pelagius had a keen mind and sense of morality that, although Arthur deeply appreciated, did not quench his longing for the wisdom, the insight, the encouragement only a father can give. He opened watery green eyes and searched the sky above.

"Father?" He was hopeful. Any sound. Any word. Anything other than the silence that assaulted his ears.

"Something…? Please…?" He felt rather like a small child but didn't care.

The word drifted down.

_King. _

Arthur could not mask his confusion. "King? What do you mean? What does that mean?" He was shouting the questions, ignoring the pain that shot through his side as he turned, desperately trying to find…something. "King? Who is king? King of what? What do you mean?"

"Arthur?" The hand landed on his shoulder and nearly sent him tumbling in surprise. Luckily he was balanced on his sword and besides, the owner of the hand would not have let anything happen.

"Arthur, are you alright? Who are you shouting at?" Lancelot squinted closely at the other, trying to assess any and all wounds.

One last scan of the sky and Arthur turned to acknowledge his second in command. "I'm fine, Lancelot. Injured but…alive. Just like everyone else." He smiled tightly at his friend, his…brother.


	6. Bors

**A/N:** Yes, folks…its Bors. Sorry for the delay. Please enjoy. And thanks to my dear friend who provided the opening to get Bors talking.

* * *

Bors let out a small sigh as he eased his battered, tired, smelly body into the bath water. He let out a snort at the last word – smelly. That was what Van had told him as she shooed him off to bathe. She'd likened his stench to the smell that wafts in from the fields after they've been fertilized on a hot summer day…but she'd used much better words. Raising an arm that hadn't yet been immersed in the water and looking around to make sure no one was watching, he sniffed deeply and wrinkled his nose. Yep, his Van had been right: he stunk.

Bors smiled at this. She was something. He was fortunate to have her – he knew that for certain. How he managed to keep her – that was a mystery. Of course, publicly, he'd attribute it to his sexual prowess. After all they did have…how many children did they have now? Bors shook his head. He was always losing count of those little bastards. One day he'd like to name them instead of just numbering them. Shrugging at the thought, he sank deeper into the warm water, letting his eyelids droop until his vision was reduced to a small slice of the surroundings.

_She loves you._

Drooping lids snapped open and Bors sat forward, intent on locating the intruder. Lancelot, Gawain and Galahad had been here when he'd arrived but left soon after. He chuckled slightly at the memory; Lancelot had fled the baths with Gawain hot on his heels, Galahad laughing and trailing behind. Bors hadn't heard what started the commotion, but a good bet would be a comment by Lancelot about how obvious it was why he had more success with the women than Gawain. Chortling, Bors leaned back again.

_Except Vanora. _

Bors sat forward quickly, almost falling off the small bench in the bath. The bath attendants regarded the Sarmatians as little more than nuisances and tended to leave them to have the baths to themselves, so Bors was certain he was alone. But if he was alone, then where was that damn voice coming from?

"'Ello?" He questioned the empty baths, not fully expecting an answer, but hopeful for one so that he could track down the source. Listening carefully for any sound, Bors shook his head and scooted back onto the bench. He would have to talk to Dag later, in private. Maybe this island had finally gotten to him and he needed time away from battle. Bors scratched his chin thoughtfully and pondered what he would do if Dag actually agreed and went to Arthur with the request. Would Arthur believe it? Bors was fairly certain Arthur would, being as it came from Dag and there were few he trusted more than Dag…

It would certainly give him more time with Van, something she was always bothering him about. Well, not bothering so much as…well…bothering. Bors let a smile break over his face. Gods he loved that woman.

_She loves you. _

"Whoe'er ye are and whatever ye think yer doin', yer not amusin' me…" Bors let his words drop, moving to the shallower end of the bath. "Show yerself stead of all this hidin'." He readied himself to tackle whoever appeared. He'd teach them that a Sarmatian Knight and the great Bors nonetheless, was not to be trifled with.

_Think_.

Bors was caught off-guard by the command. Usually it was Van telling him to think. Or Dag. The others mostly let him just go along, battering and bloodying anything and anyone that got in his way.

The sigh reached Bors ears and suddenly he had an image of…of…Uwaine standing, shaking his head and commanding Bors to…

_Think. _

Bors swallowed hard. This was Tristran's realm – talkin' to the dead and all that sort of stuff. He'd overheard Gawain talking with Tristran some time ago, asking if it meant he was going crazy. Tristran had simply shaken his head, rose, given Gawain's shoulders a strong squeeze and walked away. Bors had held his tongue, knowing that if he said something to Gawain and Tristran got wind…well, the scout would have made certain Bors paid dearly for the intrusion and insolence.

Closing his eyes and leaning back, Bors tried to convince himself that this was not possible, not happening and…well…just not possible. But try as he might, he could not shake the images of Uwaine that came to his mind. Images of them in happier times: riding off to battles and returning victorious, laughing; evenings spent in the tavern…gods, Van had been little more than a girl then…

_She loved you. _

Bors smiled. Bors had fallen for Vanora the first time he'd seen her but never believed she could have felt the same. It had been Uwaine who had forced the introduction between him and Vanora. Poor girl. Uwaine had been so convinced that she had affection for Bors that he'd resorted to tripping her; the brimming pitcher of ale had showered multiple Knights while Van had landed smack in Bors' lap. Of course this had all amused Uwaine mightily. He'd proclaimed his work done, found a wench and retired for the evening.

_It worked. _

"Aye…that it did." Bors agreed, smiling broadly and rubbing his chin. "That it did… an' yer still lucky she didn't break that pitcher over yer head." He smirked at the memory of Van in his lap, momentarily stunned, surveying where her pitcher contents had landed and looking for the culprit who'd caused her spill. When she'd spied Uwaine's smirk, Bors had to grab her round the waist to keep her from giving him a good, hard smack. It had been while restraining her that Bors had managed to sneak his first kiss.

Shaking his head, Bors immersed himself in the warm water one final time. He figured he'd spent enough time in the water to wash off any smell. Now, memories fresh in his head, he just wanted to get back to Van… Who knew? Maybe he'd smell so nice that she'd be willing to work on bastard number… Bors paused to scratch his ruff…

_Nine. _

"Nine. Right. Thanks, Uwaine."


	7. Dagonet

**A/N: **Last but certainly far from least…Dagonet. Sincerest thanks to my two muses for this segment. I do hope you both enjoy deeply.

* * *

Battle was over. All had made it back to the fort intact instead of a few having to drag back the pieces. He shuddered inwardly as he moved through the crowd that had gathered to greet them. Rarely were his inner thoughts expressed. He'd learned that in the travel from Sarmatia to this…place. Even his cousin, Bors, would admit that he'd become more of a recluse, more of a loner, than he'd been in their homeland. He couldn't keep the smirk from reaching his mouth, so he turned his face into the thick jerkin to keep anyone from noticing.

If he were in Sarmatia still, he'd probably be a shepherd. The thought of time alone, spent quietly watching everything pass had never bothered him; truthfully, it held a great appeal for him. He would still have learned the ways of a healer, learned the plants and medicines of his people passed down from his grandmother. That role would also have made him responsible for the final rites of passage, just as it had here. While this repulsed or even scared others, Dagonet had always looked on it as simply something that had to happen, that someone had to be responsible for. Rather, it did not bother him when it was a natural dying; watching his brothers cut down in battle was not natural and he swore he would never become accustomed to that.

Reaching his room, he reflexively glanced over his shoulder; as expected, no one followed. They all knew after battle, if his healing or funerary services were not needed, Dagonet was best left to his solitude.

Shutting the door tightly behind him, Dagonet finally let his shoulders slump under the weight. He slowly undid bindings and began shedding the heavy clothing pieces. He washed, enjoying the feel of the cool water on his skin, watching as the dirt and clots of blood pooled at the bottom of the washbasin and clean, white skin appeared.

_Alone again._

Dagonet merely nodded, knowing words were not necessary. He sighed and let his bulk sink into the chair. Sliding heavy boots off, he stretched his feet and toes, wiggling and studying them.

_No funerals._

This time Dagonet shook his head and was thankful to be able to do so. Without a deceased brother to tend to, he could take his time unwinding, savoring the peace of his sanctuary.

_Alone is not good, Dagonet._

He shrugged and returned to studying his toes as he stretched and flexed them, taking the opportunity to do the same with his calf muscles. He noted that they seemed particularly tight; he would have to check the length of his stirrups.

_Avoidance – your strength._

He rolled his eyes and sighed. Always that was what Tor told him. 'You avoid what you cannot control. You avoid so you can be alone. You avoid so much and, mark my words, you will avoid yourself right out of a life.'

_Truth, isn't it?_

Dagonet rolled his eyes again. He didn't want a life on this wretched island, in this miserable fort. He just wanted to finish his service, receive his papers and return to Sarmatia.

_To do what precisely?_

Dagonet shrugged and smirked. "Perhaps I will become a shepherd." He allowed a small laugh to escape and heard it echoed by his unseen brother.

_Anything to be alone._

"What is so wrong with alone?" Dagonet looked around him at the purposefully meager furnishings. He could not see how any other person would find such surroundings welcoming, could not understand how Bors could not only raise a family among such surroundings, but thrive. Because that is one thing Dagonet would give Bors unequalled credit for – the man had not only carved out a life, but had thrived doing so. But that also spoke to their differences. Bors had a natural gift for attracting others, a way and manner that set people at ease; Dagonet knew he had no such gift. He was large and prone to silence, which gave him an air of unconscious intimidation. Not bad characteristics given his profession, but they did not lend well to acquiring and retaining lovers.

_Excuses._

Dagonet sighed. Strong shoulders drooped, allowing his chin to rest on the broad, bare chest. "What if they are, Tor? Does it truly matter? It is less things I need worry over – her happiness, well-being of children, what will happen if I do not return from battle… Have you ever thought that others were correct that love and families do not have a place in the lives of Knights?" Dagonet swatted at dirt on the table top and waited for an answer.

_Perhaps. Or perhaps it is yet another excuse. For you and them._

Dagonet scoffed loudly and could see Tor shrugging at him in his 'believe what you want, but I know I am correct' way. Which, Dagonet grudgingly admitted, very often his mentor and brother was.

_I have not been able to tell you what to do for a length of time, but such solitude as you inflict on yourself is not good, brother. For you or those around you. _

Shaking his head, Dagonet realized he could feel Tor withdrawing. He'd come, said his piece and was now back to the other realm, leaving Dagonet to decide as always how to proceed. Sitting motionless a moment longer, Dagonet finally reached for socks, boots and shirt. He would go to the tavern, relish the company of his brothers and try to be open to the possibility of finding someone to keep him company this night. He smiled slightly at the last thought, knowing that would be the most difficult to achieve but then, he always did enjoy a good challenge.

"Good night, Tor. Well earned peace and rest to you until we meet again." Closing the door tightly behind him, heavy footsteps made their way down the hallway and stairs.

_Too soon, my dear brother Dagonet…much too soon…_

* * *

Who knew one song could yield so much fruit? Anyway. Since you've made it here, I hope you've enjoyed reading the series as much as I've enjoyed writing it.


	8. From the Other Side

**Disclaimer:** I don't own though I have done a fair bit of tinkering with the individuals featured.

**A/N:** I have no idea. I really don't. They just started talking and so I started writing. I don't know if they have plans or ulterior motives...I'm just the scribe and I just do as I'm told.

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_**From the Other Side**_

Uther had been a Roman commander who had been anything but Roman. He wore the Roman eagles and spoke the Latin tongue, but he had always felt closer to the men he commanded than the officers he was often thrust into the midst of. A respected officer in his own right, Uther was someone that others sought out for counsel, to run ideas or strategies past because they knew that although he would be honest, it would not be in a degrading way. He would also take the time to patiently explain and answer questions from all who brought them to him; it mattered not if the inquirer was Roman, Sarmatian or Briton. A proud father of two daughters, those who knew him swore he had never been happier than when his son had been born. He'd been buried in the Knight's cemetery, at the behest of the Sarmatian Knights themselves, when he'd fallen in battle – a victim of the small, vicious Woad woman who had seen the opening after he'd killed one of her kin and jumped on his back, plunged the dagger deep into his chest…and been horrified herself as the Roman tore her off him and took her head as he sank to his knees with his son's name on his lips.

_**XXXXXX**_

Tor had calmly and gracefully accepted his own death, although none that knew him would have expected any less from the gentle Knight. Even in a place of calm and serenity, Tor seemed to radiate those things just as he had in life. Tor had been a level-head voice of reason and sanity in an otherwise insane place. Though like the others he had been unhappy with his conscription, Tor had striven to make the best of it. Finding a wife and siring a couple of children, he had carved out a life that many had envied. He, of all of them, seemed the most adept at separating his Knightly duties from his fatherly and husbandly ones while playing counselor to any and all of his brothers who sought his ear. The brothers had despaired when he'd been lost in the ill-advised Roman ordered raid in Woad territory. He'd fallen in a hail of Woad arrows, having been among the first riders to breach the Woad lines.

_**XXXXXX**_

Uwaine had been the unassuming older brother everyone loved but couldn't exactly tell you why. He was neither reserved nor full of fiery rage – he simply was. He hated his conscription but knew it was a waste of precious time and energy complaining or stomping about angrily – that energy could be put to better use pursuing life…and pretty girls. His death had not been spectacular and had not even been on a battlefield. Rather, Uwaine had died after the battle, in a bed, as the infection from a wound spread through his body. He'd deteriorated slowly, at one point begging his brothers to do him in, but none could bring themselves to do the deed. He'd arrived quietly in the other world, relieved to simply be free of the shackles his dying shell had become.

_**XXXXXX**_

Bedwyr, though one of the youngest of the group, had grown accustomed to being referred to as 'the elder'. At first it had bothered him until one day it had dawned on him that despite the young age of his body, he really was an elder. His was an old spirit trapped inside a youthful shell and the two had problems relating to each other many days. It was why he knew, seemingly unerringly, which was the right path – not that he always took that path, mind you; how he could see the end of a plan and if it would work or was even worth pursuing; explained his wisdom beyond his years and, yes, even his annoying habit of always being right. Knights that were near-by when Bedwyr had met his end swore the elder showed no surprise when the Woad struck him, as if he somehow knew he could not avoid the blade that tore him open from waist to chest.

_**XXXXXX**_

Kay had been a second-in-command extraordinaire. Often accused of being aloof, those who knew him best knew he was anything but. He cared deeply for his brethren and it was that caring that drove him to work tirelessly on their behalf. His death had been a shock – a blow that had staggered the remaining Knights…and, truthfully, had left Kay reeling as well. He'd arrived in the other world felled by Woad arrows and frantic to know his lapse hadn't undermined the battle, hadn't cost the lives of any others…before becoming inconsolable in his feelings of failure: feeling he had failed himself, his pupil, the brethren and his precious wife and child. It had taken some time but Kay had snapped back to his calm, rational self.

_**XXXXXX**_

Agravaine had been the hot head of the group. Despite the cold, calculating, reserved manner he usually exhibited, everyone knew keenly there was a raging beast barely chained within. One wrong word, one wrong move and he'd be only too happy to give you a swift introduction to that beast. However, if you were in need on the battlefield, somehow it seemed Grav always knew, was always there, always protecting his brethren to ensure everyone returned from those fields. Grav's death had come on the heels of Kay's and had nearly done the Knights in. The deaths of two highly skilled, highly valued Knights had almost been more than the group could withstand. A lapse in judgment had cost Grav his life – being too worried over a boot dagger to be paying attention to his surroundings. For his part, Grav had taken his death as he took all his other shortcomings: not well. Cursing and shouting and storming about until the seething black rage had taken hold and he'd turned into himself, shut everyone out and simply glared…before it subsided into grief and, finally, acceptance.

_**XXXXXX**_

Mouse had been the original scout and intelligence gatherer for the group. And he had been good at it. So good, in fact, that Agravaine had relied solely on what intel Mouse could gather for many of his best laid plans. It hadn't mattered where the intel resided: a briefing room, a cell, or the bedroom of a Roman officer. Mouse knew no boundaries and when he was called to provide information, nothing mattered, including privacy, if you had the information he sought. Quiet and small as his namesake, Mouse had been done in tracking down Woad access points in the structure of Hadrian's Wall. He'd known he was dead, had accepted it with a shrug. Death was unavoidable in Mouse's eyes…it was simply something that happened within a matter of time. While those left behind had decried his death as unfair and unjust, Mouse had barely batted an eye – fair and unfair did not exist to him, things were simply what they were and nothing more.


End file.
